Do Not Trust to Hope
by Dagorloth
Summary: Short Story. When Éomer returns to Edoras, having disobeyed the King’s orders, what is the reception he’ll receive from a Lord he had once thought of as a father, but now poisoned by the words of Wormtongue?


**DO NOT TRUST TO HOPE  
****By:** Rai  
**Rated: **PG

**Author's Note:** Ever since seeing Peter Jackson's _The Lord of the Rings _I have developed a very deep love for the Rohirrim, especially Éomer, more because Karl Urban (who plays Éomer) is uhm… hot?  
Anyway, I came to be viewing _The Two Towers_ Extended Edition, and was watching when Éomer was exiled from Rohan, and I remembered how different it was from what happened in the book. I then asked, Éomer was thrown in jail but how did he come about in there? Why was he thrown in jail precisely? What was the reception he received when he returned home after meeting with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli?  
This is a 'short' (uh huh… yeah sure) story of Éomer's arrest, two days before the coming of Gandalf to Edoras on Mar. 2nd.  
**Spoilers**: One big spoiler from _Fellowship_ (the fate of Gandalf) and some others, mostly involving Éomer, Éowyn, Wormtongue and Théoden. Generally speaking, if you have seen the movies/read the books, you have nothing to worry about. At least, you should have seen the _Fellowship_ and the first half of _Two Towers_.  
**Disclaimer:** I am not the owner or creator of Middle-earth, nor am I the owner of any of the characters mentioned thus. This is just a fanfiction writer trying to tell a small tale that popped into my head and flowed onto the computer one day. Any inconsistencies in canon or story lines are my fault (though I worked hard so that there were none). Grammatical errors are my own.  
**Synopsis:** When Éomer returns to Edoras, having disobeyed the King's orders, what is the reception he'll receive from a Lord he had once thought of as a father, but now poisoned by the words of Wormtongue?

* * *

Éomer could feel his weariness in his bones as he rode towards Edoras, watching its banners of the galloping horse on green fly high in the breeze of a fading day as evening swept her dark mantle over the lands of his home, Rohan. He looked back at an exhausted but proud _eored_, men from his own household, their pale-flaxen hair lightly brushed by that same wind that caressed the banners beyond, the grey helm of their armour shining dully in the failing light, their deadly spears held tightly in their iron grip as they hastened towards the home of the Horse Lords.

They have ridden hard for four days, with little to no rest, for in their hearts they knew that haste was their greatest need. And so they hastened indeed as if time was their enemy and there were occasions when the analogy seemed to hold true. So they rode like the wind, as fast as their steeds would allow without doing injury to them.

He stiffed a yawn that threatened to escape, unwilling to show weakness before his men nor make any indication to just how weary he was. He had not slept since he was last in Edoras, in the Golden Hall of Meduseld. Too much dwelt on his mind to allow him to sleep peacefully.

There has been little this past few years that has allowed him a restful slumber at all.

"_Hwaer cwóm helm? hwaer cwóm byrne? Hwaer cwóm feax flówende?_" chanted Éomer to himself in the language of the Riddermark, thinking back to a poem he had heard recited many times in the Halls of the King.

"My lord?"

Éomer blinked as he was snapped from his reverie, looking into the green eyes of his second-in-command, eyes that were laced with concern. "What is it Éothain?" said Éomer firmly, hoping he had not been caught in his daze. A captain caught daydreaming when he must be fully attentive to his men and his surroundings is but the greatest dishonour.

"My lord, we are nearing Edoras," spoke Éothain haltingly, the gates looming taller as they neared their destination.

Éomer frowned at his lieutenant. "I'm well aware of that for I am indeed not of little wit nor sight, as that dwarf we encountered today seemed to imply!" He said a little more sharply than he would have liked, causing Éothain to jump nervously in his saddle so that his horse slowed slightly in surprise. It took Éothain some time to regain control of his horse before he was able to ride up next to the Third Marshal of the Riddermark.

"Éomer… my lord," said Éothain a bit more strongly this time, "I did not mean to state the obvious, nor anger you in any way. I'm simply saying that…" He trailed off uncomfortably as he gave the walls a worried glance. "My lord, you know as well as I that we have left his Highness' house with little guard and without his leave. This return will not be a pleasant one for you, being the one responsible for our departure, and I worry what punishment you will be faced with." The officer sighed as he brushed the long golden locks away from his eyes.

Éomer shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips. "Forgive me, friend. I did not mean to snap at you, but today's events and news from those travellers and the reception I must inevitably face has me on edge," he said softly. "Forgive me for sounding harsh. I am no more at ease with what will be when I return to the King's Halls having disobeyed him."

That's right. He did leave Edoras without the king's permission. In fact it had been ordered that he was not to leave Edoras. He was practically forbidden to ride out against the orcs that were crossing so freely over the Wold…

* * *

"You would dare take your men out to meet a mere rabble of orcs, leaving the King's House abandoned so?" snapped Gríma jumping to his feet, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes ablaze with anger. "You would leave your Lord and Liege without protection for whatever darkness that may sweep from the east or south or west to take him?"

"I am not asking to empty these halls of its men, merely to let me take those within my household to deal with these foul fiends," retorted Éomer as he gripped his helm beneath his arm tightly so to keep himself from drawing his sword on the loathsome creature the people had come to call Wormtongue.

Éomer stared coldly at the wizen figure that stood across from him, hatred simmering beneath the blue clear gaze of his own eyes at the man who so comfortably reclined in the seat on the right side of Théoden. How did so despicable a being gain such high regards in the King's hall? So long he has wandered the Eastmark fighting off what evil that dares enters his lands that he had failed to see what darkness that had crept into the halls of his own home, corrupting the mind of one he held so dear to his heart.

And he is now paying the price of his inattentiveness.

"My lord," he said gently, ignoring Wormtongue as he beseeched his uncle and his King. "My lord, I ask only for you to give me leave to ride my _eored _out to fight these enemies. Do we dare let evil run hither and thither across your lands so freely while we sit in our fine halls and pretend as if there is nothing amiss?" He spat the last remark with contempt, his eyes falling on Wormtongue again. "Shall we be so submissive to the evil that troubles our borders, that threatens us? I only ask for one hundred and ten of my men. That number should be sufficient for the task at hand."

"Are you implying, Éomer," said Wormtongue dangerously as he sat down next to the King's right side once more, "that we risk open war against those forces we have no chance of victory against?"

Éomer frowned at the accusation. He could not help but think that open war was upon them, whether they'd risk it or not, the proof of such was laid bare for all of Middle-earth to see. The fact that Wormtongue persisted in denying its existence, and in turn, so did the King, was what tore deeply into the very flame of Éomer's soul.

"Do not manipulate my words, snake," snarled the Marshal. "I only desire for us to be free, to live as we have lived, keeping our own. To do so, we must be sure that none will try and take away what is ours."

"And this has to do with the orcs how?" asked Wormtongue callously.

"Everything!" said Éomer sharply. "They were breed in darkness and from evil devices, and live only to destroy and plunder. To have even their foul feet tread on our pure, untarnished lands is a disgrace and a defilement of our homeland."

"So to save precious soil from being 'defiled', you would eagerly ride out, leaving your King's life unprotected while you wage battle on a less than troublesome rabbles of orcs from 'dirtying' our lands," Wormtongue jeered.

"But these are more than a troublesome rabble," said Éomer grimly. "These are Uruk-Hai, if my scouts have spoken true. And not just Uruk-Hai from the accused East. No," he said softly, "these are said to bear the white badge of Saruman."

"You lie!" hissed Wormtongue. "Saruman has ever been our friend and protector."

"Who is it that is lying, Wormtongue?" seethed Éomer. "Have we not suspected, ere known for long that Saruman has betrayed us all? Has not Gandalf proclaimed it so only last summer?"

"Do not speak such a name here," roared Wormtongue. "That name and man is cursed! He brings trouble where 'ere he places his foul feet."

"But he speaks only the truth that is certain, unlike some I can name," spat Éomer darkly. "Saruman, it is known, has claimed lordship of these lands and will stop at nothing to see us relinquish it. Will you give it to him, Gríma, through your ignorance?

"How many more lives of men must be taken, how many more proud Eorlingas must be slain, before you see the truth? How many more months must he lay our lands to waste with battle and treachery? How many more dark creatures must he take into his service before you see it? Orcs, Wolf-riders, and hill men that have ever been our greatest foe – all of them has sworn allegiance with Orthanc, and our 'friend' Saruman. How long will it be, Wormtongue, before he swears allegiance to Mordor, if he has not already done so?

"Alas, I fear we may be already too late, and it has already come to pass. How long my lords, before we are beset by the east and the west, without aid from our allies, boxed in by this darkness, before being swept away in blood and battle?

"Let me ride to meet this 'rabble' as you so put it. Let me bring back proof of Saruman's betrayal, and his allegiance to the Dark Lord."

Silence echoed about the great hall as he let his words sink into it. Éomer had thought then that he had won his argument, but then Wormtongue spoke.

"So for rumours you desire to ride out then, Éomer?" whispered Wormtongue harshly, "leaving your poor uncle and dare I add your sister, Éowyn," and with that his eyes darted up to the white lady that stood silently behind the King, taking in her long golden hair falling in waves down her back, "defenseless, in these Halls," he finished slowly, "Have you no courtesy Éomer, son of Éomund?"

Éomer's eyes hardened at the mentioning of his sister, noting with a dark look the way he had looked at her when she was mentioned, and how she stiffened when he did. "You have no right to name my sister thus," he said venomously.

"Indeed," said Wormtongue soothingly, turning to the King. "Your nephew is only thinking for himself, my lord. He is," he looked up at the captain, "a selfish and inconsiderate man. He refuses to protect his people as he should."

"Yes," said the King, not even looking up from his seat. "Éomer… must remain in Edoras. Must protect our people."

"But my lord…" started Éomer.

"I will not have this insubordination, Éomer sister-son!" roared Théoden King unsteadily, slamming his fist weakly into the arm of the wooden throne of the King, causing Éowyn to rush to her uncle's side, her eyes hollow of any emotion as she took his hand, trying to calm him. "You will do as I say! You will remain here in Edoras. Is that clear?"

"Sire, you are not yourself," pleaded Éomer, "Please rethink your decision, Uncle. You must understand that…"

"Have you nothing better to do than to argue your war and battle, Éomer?" snapped Wormtongue. "Must you spread your treason and malcontent? This is as your King wills it! Now be gone, Marshal." The last word he graced as if an insult. "We do not want war-mongers poisoning these halls…"

"War-monger?" echoed Éomer, his eyes wide at the allegation. "Of all the filthy, distasteful accusations…"

"Éomer, you are dismissed," snapped Théoden, his pale, dead blue eyes flashing up to look upon the Third Marshal. "Your presence is unwelcomed and unwanted here…"

* * *

Éomer sighed as he closed his eyes, leading his men up past the mounds, beneath which the sires of the King slept in eternal repose for many lives of men past, their tall green grasses swaying in gentle waves, the white flowers of the _simbelmyne_ decorating the mounds like starlight in the evening sky.

"Regardless of the nature of the consequences, Éothain, I am ready and willing to endure what punishment I am made to face for my actions," Éomer said steadily. "I was ready for it when I ordered you and my men out that evening at midnight." He looked again at the hundred and five men that still lived, that he had assembled in that short time since his meeting with the King.

"Nothing can be done of the past now. What will be, will be." He stared northward, where Fangorn laid in wait, and in silence. "All I wish is for the truth to be seen, and I hope my folly will be Rohan's gain."

Éothain looked thoughtfully at the Marshal riding next to him. "You think not of the orcs we slew when you say that, but of that ranger and his two odd companions," noted Éothain, if a bit sourly. "You think what this Man tells us is true, Éomer?"

"There was no lie in his eyes; he is an honest man," assured Éomer firmly as they rode forward to the gates. "I believe he is truly Isildur's Heir." He frowned darkly. "The fact that he has been revealed indicates that times are changing, and all is turning to darkness," he added as the men guarding the doors into Edoras sprang to their feet, their spears pointing towards the captain.

"Who arrives thus from the north?" called out one of the door wardens in the language of the Riddermark, his voice hard.

"Geldor, it is merely I, Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, with my men," answered Éomer calmly as he rode forward so that his horse stood before his men, taking off his battle helm so to let them see his face, his long blond hair dancing in the evening winds of Rohan as he looked down upon them.

"Éomer!" cried another who watched the door. "My lord, we are both overjoyed and yet pained to see you thus," he spoke. "For there is much anger in Meduseld, and it is rumoured that you are a traitor to the King."

"I am loyal to my King and no other, save my own heart," he answered poignantly.

"Regardless of your allegiance, my lord, we were ordered to inform you to ride to Meduseld immediately upon your return," said Geldor with a sigh. "Actually we were ordered to arrest you by Wormtongue; however we vehemently opposed such an order when not from the King himself, and he was without proof that it was truly by the King's decree. Regardless, we have no reason to arrest you, and know that you would honour our trust by going straight to the King." The door warden eyed him warily, as if seeking any indication of Éomer breaking such a bond.

"I had no intention to travel anywhere else but to where I abide, though it has not always been the home I remember it to be," he replied cryptically as the gates swung open slowly to admit them. Not all men were aware of Wormtongue's treachery, though there were few who loved him, but it did not do well to show any instability from the Ruling House.

Known or not however, the King's command still stood on the edge of a blade, ready to topple with but a well placed push.

"Has all your men returned safely?" asked Geldor as the host began to file past the gates, Éomer and Éothain remaining behind to speak with the wardens.

Éothain answered. "We did well, though were grieved to lose five men in this battle and two horses."

"But I saw only one riderless horse riding towards Edoras. What of the other two?" asked the second door warden, his young eyes full of curiosity.

Éothain gave Éomer a grim look. "That is something our Marshal shall have to tell you about," he said softly.

"I had thought I had your trust in my decision, Éothain," said Éomer wearily. He did not need yet another argument with his good friend over the giving of two of their horses to the three strange travellers they had the perchance to encounter that morning, who brought with them even stranger and woeful tidings. He was of little tolerance as it is to deal with any further aggravations.

"That as it may, but I did not say that I liked it," said the lieutenant with a frown.

"Did something come to pass, my lords, that required you to surrender two of your horses?" asked Geldor, an eyebrow raised in mild interest, for it was a rare event for the Rohirrim to simply yield even one horse to a stranger without great need or reason.

"You can say times are changing, Geldor, and that strange things are coming to pass," said Éomer softly as the last of his men rode into the small city. "Now if you excuse me, I do believe I have been called to the King's Hall upon my return. I bid you men good day."

As he rode up the path with Éothain, the lieutenant could not help but stare unsurely at his Marshal, growing more and more nervous as they neared the part of the road that split off, one heading down to the stables where their horses were housed, and one heading up to where the Golden Halls of the King laid in waiting. "Éomer, I fear what judgment you may encounter in Meduseld," he said quietly, his look full of concern as Éomer pulled back his hair once more so to replace his helm on his head.

"There is nothing to fear," whispered Éomer, more to himself than to his friend as he straightened himself in his saddle, ready to ride off.

Suddenly, Éothain grabbed Éomer's reigns, giving his friend one last desperate look. "May hope be with you, my friend."

"Hope," laughed Éomer scornfully. "What hope are you speaking of, friend Éothain? My last redeeming hope rode off into the west with two of our horses, searching for Halflings sprung from legends and myths, and by all rights, if they do indeed exist, are dead by our hands." He pulled his reign out from his officer's grip as he began the slow trot to Meduseld at the top of the hill. "Do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands. Hope does not remain."

The ride up to Meduseld had never seemed so long, his thoughts full of darkness. He knew that he was going to have to report the tidings from the morning, and he knew, or was fairly certain unless a miracle had come to pass since he departed, that he was going to be in trouble for letting the three wanderers go freely about their lands, let alone giving them their steeds.

As his saddle swayed in the gentle movements of the horse, he remembered the discussion he shared with his sister, Éowyn, as he made ready to ride out at midnight four days ago.

* * *

"Brother, this is madness," cried Éowyn angrily, as she watched him strap on his armour.

"And what would you have me do, sister?" he hissed. "Would you have me ignore those beast fouling the lands Father had worked so hard to keep safe? Would you have me allow the very creatures father and mother died for walk freely about our lands?"

"You know as well as I that I would like nothing more than to watch their bodies rot in their own dark, foul blood," she said coldly. "But I am thinking not of them, but you. What you plan to do can be considered high treason!"

"It is not treason when it is an action done to protect my lands, which is also the _king's_ lands," said Éomer stubbornly as he strapped on his armguards.

"But you were forbidden to ride out," she cried. "Whether you are doing it to protect Rohan's lands or not does not change the fact that you were ordered to stay!"

"Éowyn…"

"You know as well as I that Wormtongue holds no love for you, brother, and would stop at nothing to see to it that you are removed from this household!" she exclaimed, taking his face so that he was made to stare directly at her face. "I cannot let you do this!"

"Why, sister?" he roared, pulling away from her gaze and slamming his fist against the wall close to him. "Why do you side with Wormtongue in this?"

Her clear, grey eyes grew even colder than before. "It is not with Wormtongue I side with," she said dangerously. "If it were I, I would have allowed you to ride out thus. But if it's against the King's command, I cannot approve, for your safety."

"You know as well as I that this is far from our Uncle's demands, but is of the craft of Wormtongue's will," snorted Éomer as he belted on his sword. "And I will not listen to a puppet of his craven counsels. War is coming, sister, and I am uncertain as to which side that snake swore allegiance to. But if today's discussion was of any indication to the fact, I would say that the more I thwart his plans, the better it will be for Rohan in the long run."

"So you would become a traitor and die just so you can spite Wormtongue," she cried, her voice trembling with rage.

"I will die doing what's right," retorted Éomer furiously, "It is not your decision but mine to make. Do not argue with me."

Éowyn's frown indicated that there was more she wished to say, but noting the look on her brother's face, she held her tongue, though unhappily. Instead she picked up his war helm, examining it thoughtfully, a notion building up inside her as her fingers played with the white horsetail that acted as a crest which denoted his status and position among the Riddermark. "Take me with you, brother," she said quietly.

Éomer did a double take. "What!" he shouted. "Are you mad? This is no picnic we are riding off to but battle. That is no place for a woman such as you."

"And why not?" asked Éowyn crisply. "You do not give me enough credit. I am better versed in warfare than you think. Also I…"

"Forget it," he snapped. "I will not take my little sister into a battle where she could be killed!"

Éowyn's face was impassive. "So you would instead let me whither and die in the cold halls of Kings, watching the old around her grow older and perish. To be nothing more than a servant of men," she said sorrowfully.

"No, I…" Éomer sighed. "I want you to be safe, sister," he explained. "War and death, they are a horror I would have you do without. You are a woman. Your place is not in combat."

"And how do you know this place is any safer than the battle you ride to? I do not… there are some people here that I would rather not have to endure any longer than I am able…" she whispered, her voice broken and her face downcast, but her eyes showing no signs of tears.

"Éowyn," said Éomer softly, lifting her chin with his finger so that she was looking into his face, "you are all I have left in this world. You and Uncle, though I doubt his mind having been so thoroughly poisoned by Wormtongue's falsehoods. You… you must understand, Éowyn. To lose you, after losing father and mother, after promising mother I would look after you, would break me – my spirit and my heart."

Éowyn looked up into her brother's eyes and for a moment Éomer thought he perceived her soul, for her eyes were filled with a torrent of sadness and grief. But the moment passed, and he once again saw the chill of his sister's eyes, their colour as cold as the ice peaked mountains in the north.

"I do not need looking after, brother," she said harshly, handing him his helm before stalking away, her great white dress swishing gently as she left him alone in his room.

* * *

"Is that all you have to report, Traitor Éomer?" hissed a thin reedy voice that caused Éomer to tremble in rage. How he hated that man!

Éomer stood on one knee, his head bent as he finished his report in the halls of the King, in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, his helm tucked respectfully under his arm.

"That is all," he said softly. "If there is more to report then I am unaware of the news or it is not mine to share." His report had consisted mostly on the orcs he had slain. Only briefly he had touched on who he had encountered that morning, and much he had kept to himself, whether out of respect or from a feeling that it was best that Wormtongue did not yet know all the details of their meeting.

The fact that Wormtongue's attention seemed more focused on that of the three strangers and the tidings they shared, as opposed to the very reason he had broken orders and rode out irked Éomer to no end.

A small, almost malevolent smile played on the lips of Wormtongue. "So Gandalf Lathspell is dead. Well good riddance I say, do you not agree, Théoden King?"

"Trouble he was," grumbled the King, coughing feebly, "and trouble he will be no more to us. This is good news. No more will he bring great evil here."

Éomer's eyes clouded in anger, but he kept his rage in check as he spoke. "I disagree, for he does not bring evil but only warns us of it. The evil he brings tidings of, I believe, is inevitable to come."

"And why would we care for the opinions of one who disobeys his lords direct command?" scoffed Wormtongue, giving Éomer a disdainful look. "Why should we listen to one who lacks loyalty?"

"You have mistaken my heart with my disloyalty, Wormtongue," grated Éomer through clenched teeth. "For I remain as ever loyal to Théoden King."

"You have a poor way of showing thus, Éomer sister-son," said Théoden darkly.

"I rode out because my better judgment forewarned me that to do otherwise would bring disaster on our heads," defended Éomer vainly.

"The fact you let three potentially dangerous things take two of our horses and ride off with them, with only the hope that they will return them, shows that with this lack of discipline comes lack of judgment as well," countered Wormtongue. "I trust not what you call "better" judgment. You know our laws, Éomer, that no stranger may walk our lands without leave of the king, and yet you did not bring them thus."

"They are no more dangerous than those orcs you were so willing to let cross our lands freely. The ranger claimed to have known our King. And I do not believe him to speak falsely," said Éomer coldly.

"And how do you know this? They have walked the lands of that Witch in the woods! They could have bewitched themselves so to seem fair to your eyes, but holds great malice beneath! They could be as foul as those orcs you have been so quick to do away with," snorted Wormtongue.

"I have heard of evil Men, Wormtongue, but not of evil Elves, and I do not think they would mean us harm," answered Éomer somewhat shrewdly.

"Is that so, traitor?" snapped Wormtongue. "Well I have not heard of evil Wizards, and yet you go about proclaiming Saruman's betrayal."

"Which I have given you more truths of that fact than you can possibly hope for," Éomer growled. "I can only give further proof of such only by bringing Saruman himself to be judged!"

"And what proof do you have of these "traveller's" good will, other than blind faith?" snarled Wormtongue.

"In dire times, all we can do is trust to blind faith," said Éomer vaguely, turning his eyes upward to stare openly at his Uncle, looking so old and dilapidated beneath his many cloaks, and his sister sitting on the King's left side, arrayed in a beautiful green velvet dress. She stared back at him, her grey eyes full of worry and dark thoughts.

Suddenly, Wormtongue sprang forward to slap Éomer across the face, sending his head sideways as the sharp blow lanced across his senses for a moment.

It took all of Éomer's self-control to keep himself from drawing his sword and beheading the man that instant.

"That was uncalled for, Wormtongue!" cried Éowyn as she jumped to her feet, her eyes full of cold fury and her hands balled up in fists.

"Scum like him has no right to look upon the King, or you, fair lady," he said thinly, his dark eyes staring hollowly into Éomer. "Scum who would put his own pride and war-hungry needs before his own family."

Suddenly Éomer leapt to his feet, grabbing Wormtongue's chin, pulling close the dark, pale figure so that he was inches from his face. "Touch me like that again worm, and you will know the feeling of cold steel," he snarled, articulating each word. "And I am tired of you twisting around my intent. It was for my family that I had ridden out. Not just my King and my sister, but also my father and mother," he said quietly, trying to control his own inner turmoil.

"Who are both DEAD," snapped Wormtongue frigidly, pulling away from Éomer's grasp.

Éomer's eyes flashed dangerously, causing Wormtongue to take a few steps away from the Marshal. "If you speak of the honorable dead with such contempt as that ever again," he growled frostily, "I swear you will join them in death."

"You dare threaten my life in this household, Éomer War-Monger?" shrieked Wormtongue. "I can have you hanged for such treason, if you will not already be executed for your wicked and malicious ways."

"If by my death I can have yours and so free my uncle from your treachery, then it is a worthy cause," cried Éomer, his blade ringing loud as he drew his blade, pointing it at Wormtongue. "I will have you poison this family no more!"

"Guards!" cried Wormtongue desperately as he raced back to Théoden's side. "Seize this traitor! He is trying to kill the King!"

Everything moved so fast for Éomer that he could barely keep up. Before he could race forward towards Wormtongue, he was grabbed from behind and pulled back, away from the throne. A hand rapped itself hard against his forearm, causing him to drop the blade, it ringing loudly as it fell against the wooden floor of the hall, and his arms thrust behind his back. It was the work of all but a few seconds, and yet to Éomer it all seemed to have moved in slow motion as he was forced on his knees.

"Now," cried Wormtongue triumphantly, as he leveled his face to Éomer's own, assured that the Marshal would not escape the hold of the guards, "you shall be locked away in the dungeons, deserter, for high treason and attempted murder of the King. We shall then set up an execution date for you once you've been trialed, and found guilty."

"You will not get away with this, orc-spawn," spat Éomer. "There is one who comes who will see to it you are thrown out from these lands. The Sword will come, Gríma Wormtongue, and when it does, you will rue the day you've ever decided to enter these halls."

"The Sword?" questioned Wormtongue, his eyes glowing brightly. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"He will bring justice back to these failing lands," spoke Éomer in a low voice. He gave Wormtongue his most hate-filled stare. "And then we will know where you stand, rat!"

"A pity you won't be alive to witness it then," smiled Wormtongue spitefully. "Take him away, so that he may rot in the darkest of our prisons!"

Éowyn stood on the terrace, her face full of distress and fear, and she looked ready to go after her brother, to save him. But then Théoden groaned loudly, coughing weakly from his chair and Éowyn bent down to see to him, though she still heard the scuffle as they lead Éomer out of Meduseld, her eyes trying not to let those unshed tears fall.

Éomer was putting up a good fight, unwilling to let them take him. As he was dragged outside, as he watched the family, the people he had spent his life protecting, disappear behind the doors that would soon separate them, perhaps for all eternity, sudden realization as to what had come to pass hit him.

He had failed in his task.

No…

No he had not failed, not yet. For there were still the three – the dwarf Gimli, the elf Legolas… and the one Aragorn, whom he named Wingfoot, Isildur's Heir – who may yet save his doomed nation. In this he cast his last hopes. Reason told him it was a fool's hope, but he found little else to cling to, lest he allows darkness and despair to take him.

"_Westu Théoden hál_," muttered Éomer in the language of the Riddermark as he was led to the dungeons of Edoras. "May I see you as you once were, a father dear to my heart, when we next meet, Théoden King. May you be freed from the darkness dark words have encased you in…"

**THE END**

**Epilogue:  
**Two days since Éomer's arrest, there came on the morn four riders, three of which on two horses lent thus to them by the Third Marshal of the Mark. Much evil was revealed on this day, and many suspicions confirmed. It was on the same day, before the great feast in Meduseld did Éomer at last receive a chance to speak with Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

"It does my heart well to see you thus, Aragorn, Isildur's Heir," said Éomer quietly to the ranger, bowing to him. "For all you have done, for Rohan and my family, I am in your debt. I am glad I have not been proven wrong in my judgment."

"I have sworn to you that I would not fail you, and I hold true to my words," said Aragorn gently, returning Éomer's bow with one of his own. "I would not leave a friend in peril."

Éomer blinked at the statement, before breaking out in a smile. "When I first met you, I thought you an orc. Instead I discovered a comrade in arms." He grasped the arm of the ranger's tightly. "In whatever darkness is to come, it makes my heart sing knowing that I have one so honorable a Man as you as an ally, one who will stand by me in whatever challenge we are made to face."

"As it does my heart," agreed Aragorn. "For there will be many challenges in the near future, and some may seem more deadly than others. But in this I hope we can hold true to each other, and that our swords shall always face the same enemy, as one."

"As one," echoed Éomer with a laugh. "Rohan will be ever loyal, to Gondor and its King."

Aragorn seemed taken aback by the sudden proclamation, but soon broke out into a true smile. "As will Gondor to Rohan. To whatever end."

Éomer nodded as they were called into the great hall. "To whatever end…"


End file.
